The Man With His Mouth Sewn Shut
by Emmalyn Black
Summary: Loki finds himself back on Midgard, suffering from various instances of retrograde amnesia. He doesn't know how he got there, where he came from, where he's going... but what he does know is that he hurts. (Probably a series of one-shots. May end up with some Tony/Loki or Loki/OC? We'll see - I still don't know exactly where this is going. Rated T to be safe, for now.)
1. Quick Introduction and Notes

**NOTE: This 'chapter' can be ignored if you don't want to read it. I have uploaded this as a separate chapter to avoid unnecessarily long Author's Notes at the beginnings of the actual chapters (I'll try to leave those at the end, so you don't have to read them if you don't want to). This note contains some spoilers, but the top part is safe :)**

* * *

**Chapter Zero - Initial Author's Notes, and an Explanation**

Hi there, readers! This is my first real attempt at a fic, and as I've been on a bit of a _Thor_ and _Avengers_ (and Marvel in general) high for a while... I thought it was about time that I gave back to this awesome community, instead of lurking about and reading everyone else's stories. I write a lot of original fiction for my own enjoyment, but I've never published any of it online (nor do I really plan to, sorry). But anyway, I'm sure you don't care about that.

What I actually wanted to explain was where this little fic came from, without having to put it in a ridiculously long Author's Note at the beginning of the first chapter. So you can skip this out, if you like. I'd appreciate it if you did take the time to read it, though, as it may help you make sense of my style of writing - and of the story itself.

My writing style can be quite different. I still don't know if I'm going to use my own personal style in here, but if I do, I'll warn you in an author's note at the beginning of the chapter. The closest thing I can relate it to is a stream of consciousness, and it looks something like this:

* * *

Then I'm outside with them all, and so is Anne - who I think is drunk - and Aaran jumps out of the spa

_(showoff, don't you know you'll only end up hurting yourself or someone else?)_

and he hugs me, completely soaking my white tank-top. It'd be embarrassing if I cared, but I don't, so I let him hug me and I contend with the cold wind against my wet clothing when he lets go

_(when you're feeling bad just remember i won't let you go)_

- just to shoo away Demii, the puppy, and fetch himself another drink.

* * *

The bracketed sections are interjected thoughts from the 'speaking' or 'active' character, and it adds a bit of their personality in as the story progresses. It's something I developed as I was writing an original short story, and I've sort of adopted it as my own. People tend to understand it better once I've explained it to them, so... here's hoping that makes sense!

Right. Moving on...

The idea for this fic has been floating around in my head for at least a year by now. I sit and daydream in class about all these scenarios that I want to write out, but the 'write out' part never seems to happen. My mind produces tiny movies for me to watch, hoping that one day I'll let them escape through my fingertips, and allow them to ingrain themselves in the imaginations of my readers. The thing that stops me is my sheer lack of confidence in myself, in my writing, in everything. This here is my attempt to just get over myself and finally set my thoughts free.

Here's some basic Loki Stats for you, before you complain at me about anything...

- _**My Loki has GREEN eyes**_ (I'm sticking with the popular 'the Tesseract made them blue in _Avengers_' headcanon here)

- Instead of causing the 'Laufeyson / Odinson' debate, _**my Loki will just go by 'Loki'**_.

- Despite Norse mythology saying otherwise, _**my Loki will not have any children**_... especially not a horse, a snake and a wolf. If anything, they may show up as pets.

- I will be combining all three of the common elements - meaning that _**my Loki will come from Norse mythology, the Marvel comic!verse, and the Thor / Avengers movie!verse.**_ Artistic licence and all that. I do what I want!

And yes, I refer to this Loki as 'my Loki'. Why? This is simply my _version_ of Loki - I do not, in any way, feel like I have some sort of emotional claim over a fictional character. Yes, Tom Hiddleston is attractive, and everything about him appears to be simply fantastic... but I'm not delusional, he's a human being just like the rest of us, and his portrayal of Loki is exactly that: a portrayal. Loki is not real. If he were, we'd probably all be dead by now. For some reason, I doubt he'd appreciate having these sorts of stories written about him...

* * *

(Warning: from here, this section may contain mild spoilers. It's okay, though... I'm sure you'll live.)

The basis of this story came from an idea that weaselled its way into my head in the middle of Language class: _what if Loki completely forgot who he was, and what he'd done?_ Of course, to anyone who knew who he was, they'd disregard Loki's cluelessness as a cleverly formulated act - but what about those who didn't? What if he allowed himself to become like the 'pathetic mortals' he once loathed so much? What if he made friends with some of them, engaged in their day-to-day activities... allowed them into his heart?

And what happens after that, when SHIELD comes along and breaks up the party?

This is the story of a different Loki, a broken Loki, a Loki who has no idea what he's supposed to do with himself. He doesn't remember much of his old life - he remembers select things about Asgard, vaguely, but he remembers nothing of the fall, of Thanos and the Chitauri, of his attack on Midgard. His mind tells him that Asgard was a terrible place, but he knows that he grew up there, and that it wasn't always so bad. He remembers his mother, Frigga, and a blonde man... his brother? He remembers a man with an eyepatch - _two_ men with eyepatches, and over the same eye, at that - but he cannot associate any specific memories with either of the two.

He is in pain from numerous injuries and fractures, but he has no idea how he got any of them. His body is covered in scars - on his back, on his neck, on his legs and his wrists and his slender fingers. Some of them form familiar patterns, but he cannot remember what these symbols stand for.

I won't tell you any more, not here... I wouldn't want to completely ruin it for you. I just wanted you to know about 'my' Loki, who I feel like apologizing to every time I hurt him. I know he's a fictional character, and I know he's technically not even mine to be protective of - but this is my version of the mythological deity recreated by Marvel, and just like any of my own characters, I do feel a sort of... well, I don't know what it is, really. Apparently, feeling this sort of thing about your characters can help you write them better, and thus make them seem more real to the readers. Again, I wouldn't know - I'm incredibly inexperienced, and I'm still working on my techniques.

* * *

As with most people on this site, I'm always open to your feedback and opinions. Without your help, I'll never learn what I'm doing right or wrong. Thank you to those that have read this weirdly long author's note in full - I know I'm a little hard to deal with and understand, but hopefully this has made things better.

Love always,

Em xx


	2. But They Don't Know Me Like I Do

**The Man With His Mouth Sewn Shut**

**Synopsis:** Loki finds himself back on Midgard, suffering from various instances of retrograde amnesia. He doesn't know how he got there, where he came from, where he's going... but what he does know is that he _hurts_. (Probably a series of one-shots. May end up with some Tony/Loki or Loki/OC? We'll see.)

* * *

**Chapter One - But They Don't Know Me Like I Do**

The room is dark, for the most part, and the only illumination comes from thin tendrils of morning sunlight lazily working their way through the window-shades. This room is built from the traditional four walls: a king-sized bed is placed centre of one wall, with a side-table on its left. A low chest of drawers is on another, opposite the wall with the windows. A built-in wardrobe with mirrored doors spans the last wall, reflecting the room's image all over again.

Everything in this room stands practically empty, including the unmade bed.

On the floor beside the bed, still trapped in a tangle of sheets, lies the figure of a man. His chest rises and falls as he breathes - heavily - and occasionally, his body jerks a little, fighting off some invisible enemy. He is lost in the throes of a terrible nightmare, and not even the blaring of car horns outside has managed to rouse him. Not yet.

Eventually, he will wake, but he will not remember the awful visions that plagued his dreams. It is a blessing that he does not fully appreciate - he says, in his waking hours, that he wishes he could recall the things that made him so reluctant to fall asleep each night. Yet if he did, he would never sleep at all for fear of revisiting all the things he knows he's forgotten.

Above the chest of drawers, there are a series of rough pencil sketches. The man is by no means an artist, but his depictions are easily recognizable. There is:  
A partially damaged Tower - with a capital _T_ - nestled on the same pristine skyline as the Chrysler Building.  
An elegant woman, her head held high and proud, her flowing gown swishing about her ankles as she walks down a long hallway.  
A furious monster, nothing more than a hulking great mass of muscle - it vaguely resembles a disproportionate human, if you look for long enough.  
A cube, just a cube, with no shading or other details.  
A set of rather stylised self-portraits.  
A full-body continuation based upon a newspaper clipping of a bulky blonde man, who clings to a glorified hammer as if his life depends on it.

These are, apparently, some of the things that he remembers. Pinned alongside the sketches are numerous lists, vastly differing in length. Some are hastily scribbled, others are neatly penned in his perfect cursive script. He doesn't know what the majority of it means, but he's made a habit of recording the vague snippets he can draw out from his subconscious. There is a small, battered journal under his pillow, which holds even more of his confused memories - and, of course, a pen.

The old saying holds true: silence is golden. Unfortunately, golden things are increasing in both expense and rarity these days, and are possessed only by those who can afford such luxuries. The man on the ground cannot; he is startled from his restless sleep by the incessant chiming of a generic cellphone alarm, and he flails about further, trying to locate the damned device without having to get up from the floor. Giving up, he shoves the sheets off his body, revealing his tall, lean form - but he covers himself up again quite quickly with a robe he retrieves from the floor. The phone is on his bedside table, vibrating as it rings, and he silences it by ripping the battery out in sheer frustration. It is effective, but perhaps not worth the effort it'll require to reset the date and time on it later.

He promptly throws himself onto the bed, and curls himself up as small as he can. Nobody can see him here, nobody can judge him for taking comfort in such little things. He pulls the knotted blankets over his body, then pushes them straight back off again, finding them almost stifling. He contents himself with just lying there - his nightmare brought no new information, so there is nothing for him to record in the small journal. And besides, it is a Sunday. He can be forgiven for not wanting to do anything at all on a Sunday.

Later, around noon, he wakes again after yet another fitful sleep, and finally decides to get up. He draws back the curtains covering his bedroom windows - the Sun is still persistently shining, and he blinks a couple of times before his eyes adjust themselves. Despite the warm weather, he dresses in a black Henley and a pair of dark skinny jeans, covering as much of his pale skin as possible. He doesn't like to look at himself anymore... not that he can recall a time when he was ever that happy with his appearance. He remembers feeling inadequate, always.

The people he has met during his excursions around the city - especially the women - would be inclined to disagree. But then again, they have no idea what really lies beneath the layers of clothing. They think he is extremely Sun-sensitive, whatever that means, and they do not recall him ever having had a tan. It doesn't matter. What they don't know can't hurt them.

But it can still hurt _him_.

Because whatever he may have looked like in the past cannot possibly be that awful - not compared to the sight he is faced with when he sees himself now. From his neck to his toes, his body is a canvas covered in jagged scars. Some resemble symbols he swears he's seen before, but the majority of them are nothing more than cruel, haphazardly-placed cuts. His wrists are the worst part: subconsciously, in his sleep, he still tears at the invisible cuffs that must've once been as real as the pain he wakes up to each morning. The rest of the scars, at least, have healed.

Some of them he _remembers_ - the shallow one on his chin, from where he careened into a stone bench, or the patchy one on his elbow from a nasty fall.  
Some of them can be put down to his own stupidity.  
Some of them are easy to interpret - this one was made with a knife, that one with something harsher.  
The rest remain a mystery to him, like the perfectly symmetrical curved lines that wrap around his arms, legs and fingers.

Then he stands for a moment, and contents himself with studying the familiar view from his window. It is the same skyline he has sketched in the picture above his chest of drawers, but the buildings surrounding the Tower are more damaged than in his dreams.

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

Well, there's the first chapter! This has been too long in coming, honestly... I really enjoyed writing this (though the posting process is just as huge of a hassle as I remembered).

Thank you all so much for reading - your feedback would be greatly appreciated, of course. This is a sort of 'introductory' chapter to the story - it gets more interesting from here, as do the ideas in my head. I just had to lay down the basics. I'll get some of the other chapters written out as quickly as I can, but I can't promise weekly updates like some authors do. I'm still quite busy with school... never, EVER take three entirely coursework-based subjects at once! Maybe in a couple of months, when I'm on break again, I might be able to post more regularly. We'll see!

Massive thanks to **L. Laufeyson** - without you, this story wouldn't even be here. Go read her story, _Warning Signs_ - I promise it's more awesome than mine! :)

Before anyone asks, I do have a tumblr - it's _loooooooki_, with seven O's. Follow me at your own risk!

Love always,  
Em xx


	3. The Streets Burn

**The Man With His Mouth Sewn Shut**

**Synopsis:** Loki finds himself back on Midgard, suffering from various instances of retrograde amnesia. He doesn't know how he got there, where he came from, where he's going... but what he does know is that he _hurts_. (Probably a series of one-shots. May end up with some Tony/Loki or Loki/OC? We'll see.)

**Chapter One (Point Five) - The Streets Burn**

* * *

_Everywhere, there is chaos._

_Such beautiful, unparalleled chaos. Shattered remains of glass panes litter the pathways, and the city's inhabitants weave their way through piles of rubble in search of some kind of shelter. The sound of concrete crashing down fills the air, mingling with the screams and shouts of the  
__innocent  
__innocuous  
__(insignificant?)  
__civilians. He watches from the sky, he watches from the ground - he watches from wherever takes his fancy, through the eyes of his army. Some of their eyes are weaker than others, but his own are the strongest of them all. He is a God, and he is above them. He sees with perfect clarity._

_Is this what he wants?  
__Perhaps._

_The ground below him is a fiery blur, as everything falls prey to an uncontrollable flame. Strange, that the God of Fire would be a-_

_He won't say it, but it's there. Literally, it's there, it's under his skin. And it burns._

_Just like the city below him, his body is encompassed in a white-hot heat. He pretends he can't feel it, because acknowledging it would only make it worse. They did this to him, the pain. The constant, merciless torture that he can't even pin down. Every sensation is amplified, and sometimes there are hallucinations. He sees things that aren't there. Visions, he assumes they're caused by his fatigue._

_Are they?  
__Perhaps._

_He's pretty sure that this is a hallucination. Sure, the city's ruined, but this couldn't possibly have been the cause. There's too much  
__damage  
__destruction  
__(death?)  
__and there's too much noise. He imagines the buildings falling in silence. He grins, and it's manic._

_Occasionally, a vehicle will try to make its way out of the Chaos Zone. They swerve around their fallen kin, sometimes slowly, and sometimes at breakneck speed. It doesn't matter, though. They all end up flat on their backs in the end._

_Like beetles, among ants, in a field of tall grass.  
__Someone's found a magnifying glass, and he's setting them all alight._

_There's a reason for this, somewhere. Amidst the most stunning turmoil he's ever been honoured enough to witness, there is a Purpose, and it is indeed Glorious. A Glorious Purpose, but not necessarily a burden. Chaos is as freeing as it is fleeting. All good things come to an end, and all bad things meet their demise._

_Does that make him bad?  
__Possibly  
__Perchance  
__(Perhaps?)_

_Well, he does not see any demise of his own in the near future, and that is all that matters._

_Maybe this is reality - a first-hand memory, or a tale told. Hyperbolic, definitely, but with strings of truth knotting the pictures together. He picks them out, like so:_

_he is not fighting  
__but others are, and ruthlessly  
__there is Good and there is Evil  
__but he cannot tell which is which  
__everything hurts  
__chaos reigns triumphant  
__this whole world is falling to the ground  
__the streets are burning  
__these people are dying  
__they mean nothing nothing nothing  
__they are nothing  
__they are **dead**_

_Good and Evil are not quantifiable categories, but if he had to, he would place himself under the heading of Good. He is Good, and they are Evil. They did this to him. They made him into a monster-_

_...not quite.  
__But they helped._

_Who are they? He doesn't know. But they are to blame for this chaos, not him. Part of him rejects this realization, as chaos is his speciality... but most of his being refuses to be implicated in the demise of an entire world._

_Is it too late to stop it?  
__Most definitely.  
_

_Could he try?  
__Well, perhaps._

_He reaches the Tower, the third-tallest in the city. He wanted the Chrysler, but even he accepts that the destruction of such a work of art is a tragedy. The Tower suits his needs, it is tall, and it is a beacon. It stays lit despite the damage it has taken, and it reminds him strangely of himself. Broken, but still breathing. Barely. He'll come right._

_There is a man there, waiting for him. A familiar face, but he cannot place it. The conversation starts - he's heard this before. He knows this story. He knows how it ends._

_He doesn't want it to end.  
__It has to end.  
__The man is Good.  
__And don't all good things..._

* * *

_Everything is so vivid. Every colour is enhanced. Red and gold and green and black and a fluorescent, dangerous blue. More glass shatters, goes flying; the man goes flying, followed by the metal. He doesn't understand it, entirely, but it happens._

_And from there, more pain. But at least he can place it. Fractured ribs, a shattered arm, a damaged mind, a broken soul. People gather around to stare. It's embarrassing, but he can't bring himself to care. The pain has dulled all his other senses._

_The people move closer._

_He tries to talk to them, but his mouth won't form words. His tongue feels like a slab of lead in his mouth, and it tastes about the same. Metallic, like blood. There is so much blood. He feels it on his skin, running in rivulets over his arm. He doesn't look. He can't move his head._

_Fast-forward, and he's moving. Manacles. Wrists. They leave his feet unchained because they know he cannot run. The city is no longer burning, but for all he cares, it might as well be._

_The city is no longer burning, but the fire inside his body is eating him alive and-_

* * *

Some mornings, he wakes with a scream, and he is glad he does not remember his dreams.  
He breathes. Deep.  
He's been told that it helps.

Like most mornings, he indulges in a brief reality check:  
He knows his name is Lucas Lärsson, it says so on his papers.  
He lives in an apartment in Manhattan, because that is where he is currently.  
There is nobody else living with him in the apartment, he is solitary, and that suits him just fine.  
(He also thinks he needs to pay the rent.)

All that means plenty of things, to the people around him. It gives him an identity, and he clings to it. Yet the more he hears that name, the stranger it feels. It feels wrong, but it must be right - it _has_ to be. The world is already broken enough as it is. He shouldn't ask questions. He shouldn't.

He knows his name is Lucas Lärsson. He just wishes he knew who that _was_.

* * *

**Author's Notes:  
**Jesus Christ, it's been a long time! When I said "I can't promise weekly updates", I swear I didn't mean "you guys are gonna have to wait two months for the next chapter"... I know how much that sucks, and I know I suck for doing that to you. Many apologies. It'll probably happen again, because I'm an asshole and I tend to completely lose track of time, but... I will try my hardest to write more often, at least.

1,086 words of Actual Writing. Can't say I'm all that impressed with myself, but... hey. At least I actually updated, I guess. *makes numerous pathetic excuses*

I am working on the actual second chapter, by the way. It's currently about 500 words long (though I may completely change the idea yet, because I'm still not sure how I want it all to play out). Occasionally, I might put one of these 'dream scenes' in... so long as that's okay with you guys. You'll let me know, won't you?

Thanks a million to my beautiful reviewers, and to those of you who added this story to your alert and favourite lists. And even to those of you who are just lurking on the sidelines, reading without saying a word... I love you a lot. All of you.

By the way, I changed my tumblr URL - it's now winter-castiel. To be honest, I'm more likely to reply to you on there, so feel free to leave me an ask in my inbox. (Yes, I do have anon enabled. Don't worry, you're safe.)

(Ninja edit: I finally decided on a 'Midgardian' name for Loki that I didn't entirely hate. More on this in later chapters!)


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